


Our Little Horror Story

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Dubious Consent, Hunter Jim Gordon, Lots and lots of graphic gore, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Mind Control, Possessive Oswald Cobblepot, Vampire AU, Vampire Oswald Cobblepot, Vampires being the worst, minor Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, or predeath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: In swans Jim, dying from someone else’s hands and some other fang in his throat. To think that Oswald has been holding off all this time for some outdated notion of chivalry when some sleazy young vampire tasted Jim so easily.And Jim had let him. Oswald is going to bathe in his blood.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	1. Attraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [countessrivers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And When You Start to Feel the Rush](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18905710) by [countessrivers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers). 



> An extremely belated birthday gift for Countessrivers. Based off of her Vampire AU fic which everyone should go read for some Jerome/Jeremiah/Bruce goodness. I just had to write a little Vampire Gobblepot to go along with her Vampire Hunter Jim ideas.

_“Murder at the Gazette! Seven dead in a shocking mass suicide_.”

Oswald frowns, glancing up at the television. Jennifer Luree is reporting, her hair stacked high in a pile of perfectly pinned curls and a splash of red lipstick to counter her sombre black blazer. She looks stunning. Which means the story will be _good_.

“Sir,” the rent boy whimpers, squirming underneath him.

Oswald slaps him without looking away from the grainy screen.

There’s little information, loads of conjecture, but the story is delightfully weird, just as Oswald had hoped. It’s _interesting_. A mass suicide. Seven young men all walking off a building at the Gotham Gazette at the same time. No relation to one another, no evidence of foul play, and the only commonality between them all is their sudden urge to take a swan dive off a building. It could be nothing more than the usual weirdness of Gotham, except…

His grip tightens as his blood races, the rent boy crying out as his skin breaks under Oswald’s nails.

Jim’s face is turned away from the camera, arm raised towards the other officers swarming the scene and the blurry bodies just out of frame, but Oswald doesn’t need to see all of Jim’s face to read him. He can tell enough from the clenched jaw, the set of his shoulders, the hand resting not on his gun, but the heavy wooden baton strapped to his side. The choice in weapon alone is enough to get Oswald hard. And Jim was never so well-prepared without reason. He noticed things. He had always been good at noticing things. Always so clever, so brave. It’s why Oswald had chosen him all those years ago. It’s why Jim had spared his life, when all signs practically screamed at him not to.

Oswald grabs the whore’s ash-blond hair, the wrong shade, but it’s close enough as he drives into the warm flesh, mouth pulling into a grin, a snarl, as the rent boy cries out in pained ecstasy. Oswald stares at the television screen, the grainy image of Jim glaring at the bodies, his soft, lush mouth pinched tight.

“Penguin,” the whore gasps, arching his back. Oswald wraps his hands around the replacement’s throat and squeezes, shuddering as his body tightens around Oswald’s cock in panic.

Nowadays Jim wasn’t so forgiving. The fresh-faced cop hoping to single-handedly save the world had disappeared, replaced by something sharper, harder. Now Jim was properly paranoid, cautious of the world, their beloved city stripping him of his trusting nature as he uncovered the monsters that infected every inch of Gotham. His mercy of Oswald was a mistake he hadn’t repeated, and truthfully, Oswald was proud of that. He’d seen the kindness of Jim, the steadfast morals, and he’d watched firsthand how that had all been stripped away, one death after the other. Jim really was so clever, so brittle and breakable, so enticing, but he was not for just any old monster snacking on a virgin’s flesh. Not anymore. Oswald was King of Gotham now, and that meant he controlled everything in the city, from the petty crime to who fed on who, but most especially, he controlled who came after Jim Gordon. Hero cop, vigilante vampire hunter, Penguin’s Bitch – it didn’t matter what the city knew him as, because he was Oswald’s right down to his bones.

The whore is clawing at the hands wrapped around his throat now, gaping mouth trying to suck in air, legs thrashing desperately. His wide eyes are tinged red as the capillaries burst, and Oswald contemplates scooping them out later with a toothpick, a lovely little addition in his martini.

And here he was, feeling oh so generous after Jim had dealt so beautifully with _that man_ , even ordering his people not to cause trouble for the GCPD for a while, and then to have some upstart think _they_ could antagonise Jim with this little stunt?

The reporter, Jennifer Lurnee, reappears on screen to give voice to Oswald’s thoughts of the possibility that someone orchestrated these deaths, trying to send a message, but to who was anyone’s guess. Except Jim is there, grim-faced and clearly rattled, hand still on the wooden baton that conceals the sharpened blade Falcone had given him twenty years ago after he’d murdered Peter Gordon in front of Jim, a promise for revenge against all the things that go bump in the night.

Jim hadn’t used the wooden stake since _that man_ , but now, after these deaths…

Oswald snarls under his breath and drives his cock into the whore’s thrashing body, chasing the orgasm that rips through him at the thought. There’s a wet squelch as the whore’s throat collapses under his clawed fingers, coating his hands in bloody pulp.

It seemed there were some special new visitors in his city, trying to antagonise _his_ Hunter. He couldn’t _wait_ to slaughter them.

Oswald is at his club when they appear.

The Iceberg Lounge is full that evening, revellers wanting to party in the face of danger, the blood groupies there to get their fill of pain and pleasure, and quite a few of his family, there to nestle under his wing. Jim hadn’t been discreet in his investigations, zeroing in on Oswald’s people for answers, and even though Oswald had spread the word about the newcomers to the underbosses, his family had still been rightfully rattled that Jim was on the war path.

Oswald smirks up at the frozen statue in the centre of the bar, wondering if he should wake Edward up just to gloat over what he’s missing. Perhaps once Jim finally crawls to Oswald for help, he’ll let Edward have a moment of awareness, wake him up when Jim is under him and moaning like a bitch in heat. Maybe this time, he’ll finally tear out Edward’s heart from his chest, have him wither and die just as Jim comes on his cock. He throws back the whiskey in his decanter, chasing away the aching hunger that awakens at his thoughts. He wets his lips, runs his tongue over his teeth as a pulse of want runs through him, pushing everything into focus and urges him to tear everyone in the room open and bathe in their blood.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Oswald squeezes his eyes closed, trying to temper the impulses writhing under his skin as he flicks his phone open.

“Did you do it?” the voice demands in his ear.

At the sound of that familiar cadence, the fog in his mind clears and Oswald opens his eyes with a sigh, relaxing back into the booth. Well now, a phone call is a rare treat indeed.

There’s a handsome businessman at the bar glancing nervously around the room, a newcomer clearly out of his depth surrounded by all the leather-clad bodies and too-sharp smiles. His hair is jet black, lanky body hunched nervously around his drink, but his suit fits him well and his hair is neatly combed and parted on the side. It’s close enough. Oswald silently points him out to Victor as he settles into the booth and refocuses on Jim’s voice.

“Now Jim,” he drawls in the flippant way he knows Jim loathes, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were joking. But you never joke, do you?”

“I have nine bodies in the morgue and families who want answers, so if you don’t tell me the truth right now-”

Oswald idly examines his nails, lets the unspoken threat hang in the air. Jim doesn’t say anything else. Oswald smiles. _Good boy_.

“The news said there were only seven jumpers, not nine,” Oswald points out as Victor deposits the confused businessman in Oswald’s lap. He covers the mouthpiece of the phone and lets the power coat his tongue as he holds the businessman’s gaze. The order is a familiar one, the power that he needs to enforce the command making the base of his skull tingle as he wills the identity of the hunter onto the replacement, but the human stands no chance, crumpling under the force of his will.

“Did. You. Do. It?” Jim snarls as the replacement slides to his knees between Oswald’s legs, mouthing at his cock through his pants.

Oswald sighs. _Perfect._ Now he and Jim can have a proper conversation.

“Do _you_ really think I’d do something so heinous?”

“Yes.”

The reply is immediate. Oswald can’t help but laugh and grinds his crotch into the replacements face. Victor rolls his eyes.

“Well, yes, you are right, but in this case, I am afraid I am perfectly innocent.”

There’s a long pause, and Oswald sips his drink, waiting, the quiet breaths through the phone clear as day despite the chatter and music of the club. When Jim finally speaks, Oswald unzips his pants and lets the replacement greedily suck the wet head of Oswald’s cock into his mouth.

“There were two boys,” Jim finally admits, voice hushed. Pained. “The jumpers had no marks, but they weren’t the first bodies we found. The first two, they were… they were so _young_ and… it was sloppy. Like someone wanted them to be found. And I thought…”

“You thought I might have had a hand in it?” Oswald asks, running a hand through the replacement’s dark hair. It’s surprising, how calm he feels, how unaffected. He thought the accusation would sting after all that they had been through so recently, but there’s something there in the soft lilt of Jim’s voice that catches at Oswald, hooks into his gut.

“It would make my life easier if it was you,” Jim says wryly, causing Victor to smother a grin. Now it’s Oswald’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Please don’t think so poorly of me, Jim.” It comes out too playful, too glib, and Oswald curses at his carelessness, always too relaxed around his pretty hunter.

The replacement whines at the sound of the false name Oswald has given him, thinking his words are directed at him when he’s just a copy, a stand-in. But before Oswald’s mood can sour, the replacement nibbles at the sensitive cluster of nerves under the head of his glans, like a proper slut, just like how he imagined Jim would be. All proper and put-together on the outside, but all of that hiding what a needy whore he is, how much he’s just waiting, _begging_ , for someone to hold him down and fuck him open. The replacement is turning out to be a better choice than the usual fare of prostitutes Oswald picks up from the streets, and he’s almost tempted to keep this one for a while, perhaps dye his hair and have him on hand for the next time Jim pays him a visit asking for favours. A dangerous thought when he’s already got a body count a tad too high, the pretty blond rent boys that disappear from the surrounding cities already drawing unwanted attention and that shadow of suspicion when Jim looks at him, but still, the replacement is a rare find. He probably has a family at home, children who adore him and a pretty little wife to kiss him sweetly after a hard day’s work, who had no idea how good her dear husband and father to her children was at sucking cock. Perhaps that was why Lee was such a possessive little thing, always glaring at anyone who dared look at Jim wrong, who despaired over the thought that there was a darkness in Jim, an uncontrollable want that drove him to seek out danger and pain. Perhaps Jim had even asked for it in their bedroom, a harmless request that turns into a nagging suspicion that the good kindly doctor couldn’t give Jim what he really wanted. Perhaps she told Jim he was sick for wanting such things, wrong and twisted and daring to break Jim before Oswald could, running off to leave Jim a pining, needy mess.

His nails rake over the replacement’s scalp and the hot scent of iron fills the air, drawing the attention of his nearby family in the midst of enjoying two blood groupies. The replacement’s mouth falters as blood pours down his face and the compulsion wavers. Oswald shifts his grip to the base of the replacement’s skull, ready to press into the vertebrae and shatter them like toothpicks as impotent anger curdles in his gut. Before he can tamp down on the tangle of emotions pulsing under his skin, Jim rewards him with a huff of laughter. It’s a rare sound, one usually reserved for the young Mister Wayne or his drunken Irish monkey of a partner.

“I’m done trying to categorise you, Oswald,” Jim chuckles, friendly, playful, and Oswald pauses, closing his eyes to greedily stow away the sound into his memory, to replay when he next has a pretty blond whore in his bed and only his imagination to help him along with the fantasy.

There’s another long pause, but this time the silence is comfortable, and Oswald indulges in a quick moment of make-believe that Jim is his friend, his partner, calling because he was lonely and wanted to hear his voice, joking and flirting with the unspoken promise of ‘more’ later once Jim was finished working for the night. It’s a favourite fantasy of his, a guilty pleasure he rarely allows after he’d promised himself to lock away such weaknesses. Lately, he’s found himself slipping into that daydream more and more, the soft Jim Gordon with the crooked smile who blushes and ducks his head whenever he realises someone is flirting with him, who comes home after a hard days work and enjoys nothing more than a good meal and relaxing with him. When Oswald brings the whores home during these moments of weakness, he dresses them up in loose slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt, has them curl up on the sofa sipping wine and pull him shyly into the bath with them like blushing virgins. During these plays, he doesn’t even kill the whores afterwards, giving them a taste of his blood to heal their wounds before erasing their memories and sending them on their way, none the wiser. It’s ridiculously domestic, it’s nothing Oswald would ever get when he knows that vulnerable Jim belongs to Wayne, to Vale, to Bullock and Harper. Even once upon a time, to Edward.

But never him.

Jim knew him, knew exactly what he was from the second they met. It’s probably why Oswald also liked him from the start. But ever since that night on the beach – Oswald’s hands coated in blood, _that man_ gurgling for mercy around the wooden stake immobilising him in the sand, Jim pushing Oswald out of the way, the wet thud after the blade severed through muscle and bone, _that man’s_ eyes turning glassy as his body spasmed a few feet away – Oswald had wondered what it would be like to be loved by Jim Gordon.

He’s thinking about Jim’s lips, how soft they must be, when Jim’s voice breaks the silence.

“The victims hadn’t been drained, Oswald.”

He sits up, glass tumbler shattering in his hand as his nails turn to sharp claws. The replacement is struggling properly now, hands scrabbling on Oswald’s hips as his shoulder snaps like a wishbone underneath Oswald’s unrelenting touch.

“What did you say?” Oswald snarls, too loud, and the couple in the next booth wisely scurry away.

“The boys we found; they were still… They were dead, obviously, their throats had been practically ripped out. But then they… they woke up.”

“Did they say who turned them?” Oswald demanded.

The replacement wriggles free and scrambles away, blood staining his suit and flesh gaping open where Oswald’s hands had been. Victor is there in a flash, dragging him back by his throat. With a murmured word, the human goes limp again, mind breaking under the power of Victor’s will.

“If I knew who turned them, I wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” Jim’s voice is bitter, but Oswald doesn’t care.

“And you wouldn’t be calling me if you didn’t have something to go on.” Oswald tightens his grip on his phone, half wishes it was Jim’s throat instead. He makes do with the businessman, dragging his nails against the human’s skin and watching it split open like flowers in full bloom. “So please Jim, _do tell_. I’m all ears.”

There’s a click as Jim swallows, but Oswald doesn’t press. He knows he has him.

“The victims were all the same type: boys, young, pretty, brown hair.” Oswald quirks an eyebrow at the description. No guesses who Jim was worried about who fit that criteria. “And the two who woke up didn’t give me much, but they said it was a young man with scars on his face.”

Victor stiffens beside him, attention suddenly on the opposite side of the club.

“Scars on his face,” Oswald drawls, following Victor’s glare to the booth tucked away in the corner.

Jim’s sigh is an explosion of static. “That’s all they said before I had to put them down. It’s not much to go on, I know, but I couldn’t just-”

The trio are entwined on the couch, seemingly enjoying the attentions of a blood groupie, except Oswald easily recognises the boy currently being ‘enjoyed’. Jim’s still talking away in his ear as the red-headed man grins, scarred lips twisting his face as he yanks on Bruce Wayne’s hair, exposing his throat as his twin licks into Bruce’s mouth. There’s a patchwork of half-healed bruises on Bruce’s throat and a vacant look in his eyes as the twins drag him closer, hands running over his clothes and underneath, pressing against his skin. The dark-haired twin shudders when his brother ducks his head and busies himself with Bruce’s exposed neck.

An explosion of metallic perfume fills the air. Victor half rises but Oswald clicks his tongue, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he scribbles down his instructions.

“Jim,” he purrs, cutting off the inane chatter about ‘ _turning_ ’ and ‘ _choices’_ on the other end of the phone. “Would you like the good news or the bad news first?”

“… What?”

Oswald silently hands his instructions to Victor. “Good news first, then. I just so happen to know where your murder suspect is.”

“ _What?!_ ”

The twins stand from the booth, tugging Bruce up. He stumbles, and it’s almost as if he were drunk, as though his pretty dates were simply helping him outside for an inebriated hook-up. No one looks twice at him, although Oswald’s family shiver as the trio walks out, the fresh scent of young blood lingering in the air. Victor slips away into the crowd, his girls following him without a word.

“Mmm, yes, he, or rather, _they,_ were just in my club. Vampire twins. It’s quite the image, don’t you think? The bad news is, they have their newest- what’s the word you use? Oh yes, ‘ _victim_ ’. Pretty, young, brown-haired boy, wasn’t it?”

“Are you sure? What was the situation? How was the boy that they-”

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Oswald locks eyes with the replacement and lets his power roll over him again until the terror and pain mutes into something manageable. Oswald smiles, pleased, and pulls out his switchblade, debating where to begin carving. Jim’s voice goes gruff and frantic over the phone when he doesn’t answer his questions, growing fainter as he talks to someone on his end. Oswald traces the shell of the replacement’s ear. It’s a nice ear, but it’s not as pointed as Jim’s. He slices a shallow half-moon just underneath the lobe and watches the pain once again bring the replacement back to semi-awareness.

The burner phone he uses for his more ‘discreet’ communications buzzes with a message. _The Narrows. 84 Flynn Street. Kid’s definitely been blooded._

Oswald hisses and brings the phone back to his ear.

“Jim.”

“What is it, what’s going on?” Jim immediately replies. He’d stayed on the phone despite Oswald’s silence. _Very,_ very _good boy, he’s finally learning to come when he’s called_ , Oswald realises with delight. He rattles off the address then pauses, wants Jim’s undivided attention.

Jim doesn’t hang up the phone despite having the address. He really was becoming so _obedient_. Oswald’s cock hardens again at the thought.

“Oswald,” Jim growls, but Oswald’s patience is wearing thin. He grabs the replacement by the mouth, shoving his head back and exposing the soft jugular.

“Sorry Jim, but you’re all out of favours I’m afraid, so I won’t be aiding you in this endeavour. But let’s not quibble since you really don’t have the time to waste, just make sure you come thank me if you live through this. But where were we? Oh yes, their fresh little newly blooded victim.” Oswald pauses, slightly breathless as the replacement makes a helpless little noise, struggling weakly against Oswald’s grip. Needy thing, just like Jim. Oswald delights in the anger he can practically hear through the phone. He does like when his Jim has to squirm, helpless to Oswald’s whims. Always a nice reminder of who holds the power between them.

“Those Twins seems utterly taken with their newest toy. I’m not sure whether they mean to drain him or turn him, but either way, it’ll be decided soon enough by the look of things.” Oswald leans down, breathes in the sweaty desperate scent at the replacement’s throat. It’s not quite right, too sharp and acidic compared to Jim’s, but it’ll do for now. He can’t imagine Jim will make it out of this fight without a wound or two, and once he’s done and Victor has dragged him back to Oswald, he’ll pry open those wounds with his fingers, feed Jim his blood so he can make it last, listen to Jim scream as Oswald savours his sweet blood like a fine wine, perhaps still drinking from him when Oswald finally fucks into him raw, takes what Jim has been offering him since day one. Stuff him full of Oswald’s come before he snaps Jim’s neck.

He shudders at the thought, teeth closing with a snap.

There’s a confused gurgle as the compulsion lifts from the replacement, hands flying to the bloody remains of his jugular as Oswald pulls away and spits out the gristle of the human’s throat. He frowns, wiping delicately at his mouth. Jim always managed to make him so impatient. Still, probably for the best. He wants to cherish that final moment later, no need to gorge himself on junk food when a delicacy was awaiting him.

But first, he needs to spice the meal with a bit more desperation and iron-hot anger. In his mind’s eye, he can already imagine how frantic Jim will be, how beautifully furious when he arrives and finds his young protégé in the arms of monsters.

“You’d do well to hurry, Jim,” he purrs, watching the replacement’s eyes turn glassy as he bleeds out and thinking how pretty Jim’s will be. Two lovely little sapphires to pluck from his skull.

Jim really would make the most beautiful corpse.

Oswald’s smile widens, fangs biting into his bottom lip as his bloodlust stirs again. He savours his next words.

“Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll be too late to save Bruce Wayne.”

He laughs as Jim abruptly hangs up.


	2. Satisfaction

It’s nearing 4am when Jim shoves past Victor through Oswald’s office door. Jim stumbles, half-falling, half-collapsing onto the desk, face snow-white underneath the drying blood.

“You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?” Jim slurs, hands over his abdomen. Oswald can see the obscene glisten of entrails just behind Jim’s fingers.

He shrugs, trying to conceal a smile. “Now Jim,” Oswald says slowly, as if speaking to a child, “You’re always so quick to point fingers. All I did was point you in the right direction of a couple of ne’er-do-wells as a good, upstanding citizen of Gotham. ‘Stand back and let the GCPD do what they do best’, that’s always my motto.”

He stands slowly, leisurely, not in the least bothered by Jim Gordon bleeding out in his club. He half hopes the scent will bleed into the upholstery so he can enjoy that mouth-watering smell for weeks, maybe even months to come. He might even start taking meals up here again, just so they’re that little bit closer to tasting like Jim.

Oswald rolls his shoulder back, letting his fangs extend – he wants Jim to understand _exactly_ how powerless he is here. “You storm in here accusing me when I have proven myself to be a faithful ally to you again and again. Who else has helped you as I have? Who else has never betrayed you, never faltered in aiding you even when it has proven to be a one-way street in our friendship? How could you think I planned any of this?”

Jim is swaying now, face alarmingly pale. His jacket is stiff with blood, the white of the dress shirt underneath now an ugly rust brown. The stink of blood fills the room, a sickly sweet scent that makes Oswald’s head spin. He’s tempted right now to open more veins on Jim, spill even more of that lovely smelling blood onto the ground, paint the walls with it, mark him, carve his ownership into Jim’s skin. He’s a vision, a Monet in shades of red, but through all that blood Oswald can’t quite tell if there are any puncture marks. Not visibly, at least. The thought sends a bolt of lust through him. He darts out from the desk, too quick for the human eye to follow, ignoring Jim’s instinctive flinch as he grabs the lapels of Jim’s jacket to pull him close and sniff delicately at the blood caking his clothes.

Jim’s hands are curled loosely around Oswald’s wrist, heart-rate spiking erratically as Oswald grins, eyes flickering down to his fangs. Oswald chuckles under his breath, shifting his grip so Jim is forced against his body to remain upright. Despite the blood, despite the pain, despite holding his own guts in his body by his hands, Jim still manages to tremble with fear. Using his speed and strength on Jim has caught him off guard, after so long of Oswald abiding to the unspoken agreement between the two of them that allowed Jim to push Oswald around as if it was nothing, as if he was _human_ , when they both knew full well that it was only because Oswald allowed it. An unspoken game between the two of them. A game of equals. Still, it’s unbearably pleasant, Oswald thinks idly, to throw Jim around now and then. It’s a push and pull situation they had not been in since dealing with _that man_. Now though, now Oswald cannot _wait_ to tear into Jim. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all. Jim’s eyes are very wide as they struggle to focus, his pupil’s pinpricks of black lost in a sea of blue. As usual when he’s around Jim, Oswald’s head is full of poetry. At least this time, he can blame it on the blood, rather than the lamentable possibility that he’s becoming sentimental in his older age. Or maybe it’s the inescapable bond of Jim killing the one who turned him all those years ago. Jim’s pretty, for a human, too pretty and smelling so very tantalizing, and if Oswald had noticed, the newcomers surely would have when they had a gun in their faces and, hopefully, a stake in their hearts.

Harder than he means to, Oswald slams Jim back against his desk, the movement sending another fresh wave of blood spattering against the floor. Jim groans weakly, head lolling as his eyelashes flutter. Oswald ignores him, nudging his nose under Jim’s jaw to sniff at his throat. Because despite all that blood, all that red that stinks of Jim, Oswald can still smell someone else on him. Slut, Oswald thinks viciously, you dirty slut. Giving it out to anyone comes along who is strong enough to push him down and hurt him, practically letting himself be used. It’s what Jim wants deep down, Oswald knows that, but he’d always told himself he wouldn’t give in to those flirty little looks, not until Jim had come to him and _begged_. He wanted Jim to say those sweet little words rather than just suggest his lustful thoughts to Oswald with veiled threats and hooded eyes. Jim could bare his neck during conversations all day long and Oswald wouldn’t give in to the temptation until Jim asked for it. He wouldn’t give Jim the safety net of believing he somehow didn’t want it, that Oswald _forced_ him. When the day comes for Oswald to sink his fangs into Jim’s tender throat and rip his heart from his ribcage, he wants it to be because Jim offered. Because they were old friends.

But now in swans Jim dying from someone else’s hands and some other fang in his throat. To think that he’d been holding off all this time for some outdated notion of chivalry when some sleazy newcomer slid into Jim’s pants with ease.

And Jim had let him.

That was the most annoying part. Whether it was one or both of those Twins, he couldn’t be sure, but still Oswald knew that they had touched him first, broke in his lovely mouth and carved into his flesh. Jim had so clearly gone begging for it. There were handprints petaled over Jim’s skin underneath the grime and blood, that much he could see.

Oswald pushes Jim further up the desk until he’s lying flat on his back, legs dangling off the side. He slides in between those limp legs, running his hands over the sticky red congealing on Jim’s shirt, nudging his arm away to he can properly see the long split in Jim’s belly and the wet slick of his torn stomach. Jim doesn’t move as Oswald inspects him, strangely docile as Oswald plucks the shirt from his body to stroke his skin, feathering his wounds. His eyes are glazed but still alert, following the path of Oswald’s fingers dancing over his skin. They flutter like wings of a butterfly when Oswald slides a nail along the loose flap of skin around a bite mark under Jim’s pectoral, the flesh pulled clean from the muscle underneath.

“Did you want Bruce dead?” Jim asks drowsily.

Oswald shoots him a filthy look and returns to inspecting Jim, completely peeling off the bloody shirt that clings to his chest like a layer of skin. It even makes a pleasant splat when he drops it onto the floor.

“You let them have Bruce. He told me so afterwards that he was at your club. You let them leave with him, knowing what they could have done.” Jim’s voice is dangerously soft. Oswald pauses as he finds another bite mark, warily watching Jim as he struggles to push out the rest of his words. “Did it help with your plans? Perhaps you wanted Bruce dead at and out of the way, a whole empire ripe for the taking? Or did you just think it would be amusing to watch those two drain him dry, another victim alongside those other boys?”

Jim’s hand shakily presses against Oswald’s lapel, fingers catching against the jeweled pin holding his tie in place. It’s a strangely gentle gesture, one Oswald is sure he isn’t consciously making. Ordinarily, those hands would be gripping his suit jacket and dragging him close to spit bitter words into his face. Now, with the steady blood loss (and mostly likely suffering from shock), Jim is pleasingly pliant.

Despite the bite marks, Oswald decides to reward him for being such a good boy. “Honestly Jim, you know better than that. That stunt at the Gazette? That was meant for _you_ , Jim. Perhaps it was a trap, or it was merely a pleasant distraction to pass the time for them as newly blooded vampires, but whether they meant for Bruce Wayne to be the bait to draw you out, who can say? Perhaps it was merely happenstance. Maybe they had only meant to feast on Bruce Wayne and _you_ got in their way. But all I did was… allow things to play out.”

“What a fortunate coincidence for you, then.” Oswald smiles fondly at Jim’s drowsy attempt at sarcasm.

Oswald leans forward to rest his hips in the warm bracket of Jim’s thighs, taking the strain off of his leg as his hands begin cataloguing each and every wound that scatters Jim’s milk-white skin. There are bite marks, oh yes, there a bite marks. Littered across his chest, neck, arms, not a part of him left untouched. And not just gentle bites either; they had not treated Jim as gently as they had treated Bruce Wayne. These are shark bites, hard and vicious that had torn through muscle and veins right down to the bone. Oswald hums when he scents the blood on Jim sticky skin – the dead blood of another vampire. It is a large amount at least, so Oswald imagines if there’s not some poor soul stumbling around missing a limb or two, then if he’s lucky, there’s some headless corpse rotting in a Narrows gutter right now.

He threads his gloved fingers through Jim’s blood-wet hair and drags his limp head up, Jim’s mouth soft and pliant under his lips, opening easily for Oswald’s tongue. There’s a soft whine when Oswald bites into his lip, coaxing a reluctant trickle of blood from his mouth. Oswald smiles into the kiss, sucking on Jim’s tongue. Exactly as he always suspected. Needy little thing. He’ll have to test whether this was a response he would get when Jim hadn’t lost half his body weight in blood, but still, it was a nice little titbit of knowledge that Jim liked it dirty. He curls his tongue against the back of Jim’s teeth as he pulls away, chuckling when Jim mindlessly follows his mouth, eyes still dangerously vacant. Oswald drops a kiss onto Jim’s lips, sighing fondly as Jim struggles to answer the pressure.

That won’t do at all.

Lifting his hand to his mouth, Oswald carefully nips at the pads of each of his fingertips, delicately opening them on the pointed tip of his fanged tooth until blood drips over the palm of his hand. Pressing his fingers against Jim’s mouth, he rubs them briefly over Jim’s soft lips until they’re painted a crude red – the painted mouth of a whore – before slipping them past Jim’s teeth to rub against his tongue. It’s not much, barely enough to heal even a portion of James extensive words, but it will keep Jim from death for the moment. Or at least, ensure that even if he did die, he wouldn’t stay dead for long.

Oswald shifts with a groan, his lame leg grinding in its socket. He really needed to call it a night and rest, but the question still remained on what to do with Jim.

He shifts again as he lifts Jim’s clammy hand to his mouth, idly licking the dirtied blood from his knuckles as awareness slowly bleeds back into Jim’s eyes. He can tell the moment Jim fully recovers consciousness; his dull human teeth snapping closed hard around Oswald’s flesh as a warning. Oswald’s quirks an eyebrow as Jim gags on the fresh wave of blood that fills his mouth. He laughs when Jim tries to pull away, but he doesn’t budge, forcing Jim to swallow around his fingers. He shudders at the feeling of that warm throat convulsing around his digits.

It gives him an idea.

He hadn’t used _those_ rooms since Falcone passed, had never felt the need to keep prey alive long enough for the basement to be of any use. The whores and replacements were easy and willing under his power, passing trifles who never lived long enough to be disobedient. But for Jim…

Fisting Jim’s hair to drag him up, Oswald sighs, looking his detective over.

“You just had to play into their game, didn’t you Jim?”

Color is swiftly returning to Jim’s cheeks, the extra blood lending him a dangerous burst of adrenaline. It might even be enough to make things interesting. Oswald hesitates, excited by the thought of having to beat Jim back down again.

“Tsk tsk.” Oswald punctuates the click of his tongue with his nails stabbing into the healing wound in Jim’s belly. “What _is_ it with you letting new vampires get to you so easily? You would have thought after… _him_ … that you would know better than to underestimate these grifters.”

Jim’s nails scratch against the marble of Oswald’s skin, blunt human teeth bared. Oswald tilts his head, shaking Jim like a rag doll until he drops his hands.

It doesn’t remove the cold smile curling Jim’s bloodstained lips, and despite himself, Oswald pauses warily.

Jim was clever. It was one of the many things that made him decide Jim was _his_. Jim was dangerously clever, always one step ahead when dealing with criminals and other fangs wanting to play with him, always ready to turn their games onto _them_ instead.

“Oh, believe me, I know how to handle vamps like them.” Jim’s blue eyes glint, flexing his neck. Oswald stiffens at the sight, grinding the hardening length of his cock into Jim’s thigh.

“Tease,” Oswald hisses, and Jim grins.

“Pity they got away from me. Barely managed to slow them down. ‘Fraid they’ll be back on their feet and terrorizing _your_ town before long. Not sure where they went, but I’m afraid you’re all out of favors from the GCPD.”

Jim doesn’t sound sorry at all. That wretched smile is still on his face as Oswald bites back the urge to pull out his veins one by one. Fine. _Fine._

He runs his tongue over the tip of his fang, watching Jim’s eyes dip to his mouth. _Needy._ Things would certainly go a lot smoother with Jim’s help, by his side where he belongs, but he didn’t have time for that right now. And he needed to be up bright and late tomorrow night to hunt down whatever remained of those Twins, so for now…

Cupping his hands around Jim’s jaw, he presses in close until Jim’s breath hitches, his thighs falling open to let Oswald slide between them. Slowly, deliberately, he presses the tip of his tongue to his fang until blood runs over his lips, filling his mouth with his own blood. Jim’s eyes flicker down again, wetting his own cracked lips as Oswald tilts his head invitingly. It’s been a very, _very_ , long time since he’s played coy like this with Jim, but goodness did he miss it. Flirting, just like the old days.

“Damn you,” Jim hisses, slamming his mouth against Oswald’s.

The slide of Jim’s tongue against his own is a sweet victory, hands threading desperately through Oswald’s hair as he chases every last drop of blood from Oswald’s mouth. Even after all this time, even after vowing to cleanse the city of every last monster that preyed on the innocent, he still knew to rely on help from an old friend. His only _real_ friend.

Oswald imagines he would have said some pretty words some other time, told Jim all the things he wanted to do, all the things he’d been imagining doing for all these years, but surprisingly, he finds there are no words that come to mind at the moment. Instead he looks at Jim on his back with a monster between his legs, hungrily stealing bloody kisses from the very thing that tormented his beloved Gotham, and thinks, yes, this is right. There are no words needed between them, not when it really matters. Jim always knew the deepest parts of Oswald, just as Oswald knew the deepest parts of Jim. Deep down, Oswald knew Jim to his marrow, knew that even when he would look at Oswald with hate in his eyes and turn his back, Oswald would always be safe in the knowledge that he had a place in Jim’s heart, regardless of how he felt. It is why after all this time Jim still trusted Oswald, even when every Hunter instinct told him he should have put a stake in Oswald’s heart and removed his head long ago. But he never did, and even now, half dead and high off of vampire blood, he doesn’t. Not even when there was a trail of bodies and two vampire Twins running freely through Oswald’s city, and he’d sent Jim off full well knowing that he may never return. Yet here he is at his doorstep, angry, yes, but still here with Oswald. Jim is injured, dying, been attacked and ravaged, and yet he came to Oswald first before any other.

Perhaps he saw Bruce to safety (if the kid was still alive), but he didn’t stay. Ever since killing _that man_ for Oswald, for Gotham, since that day Jim has never managed to stay away from him.

Oswald smiles, stroking James face. That’s love, he thinks to himself dreamily.

He’s still holding Jim’s hands face in his hands when he lets the power coat his tongue and his will drip into Jim’s mind.

Even after everything Jim has gone through, there’s still a spark of betrayal in his eyes as Oswald whispers the command. Even after everything, there’s a slight pang in Oswald’s heart as Jim falls to the vampiric compulsion.

When Jim wakes up, it will be too late.

“Boss?” Victor pauses in the doorway, pepperoni pizza in hand.

“Get the old rooms ready. Our new guest will need some time to… adjust.” Oswald kisses the lovely little button of Jim’s nose before he jams his head back, exposing his throat.

Victor pauses, licking the cheese from his fangs. “Do you think that’s wise, Boss? Jim’s kinda rabbity on his best days. Maybe you should just give him a good dicking instead and send him on his way?”

There’s a thin white scar under the line of Jim’s jaw, a perfect crescent against the tanned pink of his skin. The old remnant of his childhood’s first taste of the world of monsters, discovering Falcone standing over Peter Gordon’s bloodless body before those same fangs sunk into his own tender, young throat.

“Now, Victor,” Oswald snaps, nail easily splitting open the old crescent scar.

Jim flinches at the pain, compulsion wavering. Oswald bites his lip, torn between using his switchblade or his nails to tear Jim open.

“Oswald?” Jim slurs, but it’s far too late for that. He had vowed that he would murder Jim when he finally came to Oswald and begged for it, but he made no promises for when. And this way, it could be _centuries_.

If Jim wishes, he could always continue to hunt vampires afterwards. In fact, Oswald imagines Jim would be an excellent Hunter once he was through with him. He'd hate it, think it a cursed existence, he may even come to hate Oswald for a while (not forever, of course. Jim never hated Oswald for very long) but eventually, once Jim learned to get over it, he might even embrace the new life and all that power at his finger tips. But Jim would never be the type to drink from another once he was turned, of that, Oswald was certain. To a Hunter, the very thought would be repulsive. And Jim's such a little Saint, such a martyr, that even if he tried to take his own life and end his wretched existence, all it would take is Oswald whispering into his ear and reminding him of all the good he could still accomplish, the hope of saving Gotham and the promise to Bruce Wayne, that would keep Jim alive just long enough. Keep him focused on hunting down those monstrous things in the night. And if those things happen to be Oswald’s enemies, well, that is simply a beautiful coincidence, more proof that they belong together. It's why Oswald is not particularly concerned. Jim is too driven to give up the good fight, even when he becomes the very same filthy monster that he hunts. Oswald will turn Jim, and good, pure, saintly Jim will have no choice but to turn to his sire for blood. Jim will drink from his veins, and _only_ from his veins, because it is the only option that won't hurt anyone else, won't force him to bleed anyone else. All Jim will need is Oswald.

He's almost grateful to those vampire Twins. Not enough to not still want the Twins dead, of course, but perhaps he’d rip their heads off quickly as a show of gratitude. The Twins may have interceded on his territory and killed without his permission, and that he could not abide, but they gave him Jim. Perhaps he should let Jim split their skills open and turn their writing bones to dust.

“Oswald,” Jim murmurs again, awareness slipping back into his eyes as his own iron will overpowers the compulsion.

Brushing his knuckles against Jim’s stomach, Oswald smiles as he lowers his head, pleased to feel the wound in his belly has closed. As tempting as it is, he’d rather the transition wasn’t too slow.

“Wake up soon, Jim,” Oswald purrs against Jim’s lips. "Otherwise I'll peel off Bruce Wayne's skin and drink the blue blood from his veins." Jim's flash with anger. Oswald grins.

_Perfect._

It barely takes a twitch of his fingers to open the thin skin of Jim’s jugular and feel that precious blood spill down his front. Jim chokes, hands scrabbling over Oswald’s shoulders as he gurgles in confusion. Oswald lowers his mouth to Jim’s throat and gulps down the sweet wine of Jim’s blood. Jim’s fingers spasm and twitch against Oswald's chest as the blood drains from him, too fast to stop. Oswald sighs, unbuttoning his trousers as the warmth of Jim’s blood spills down his front, rubbing his cock against Jim’s hip. His eyes are two perfect blue marbles, becoming brighter as the life drains from his body until they resemble twin sapphires. Oswald really should scoop them from Jim’s skull. Or maybe he should come down Jim’s gurgling throat so he can awaken to the taste of Oswald’s blood and semen on his lips, the only things he’ll ever eat again.

"Come join me in this cursed life, old friend," Oswald whispers into the quiet of the room.

Grinding his cock one last time against Jim’s cooling skin, Oswald presses a kiss to his slackening red lips, shakily inhaling Jim’s dying breath. It’s a beautiful drumbeat, a final crescendo as Jim’s heart beats its last. One day, maybe tomorrow after they find the Twins, maybe a century from now, Oswald was going to tear open Jim’s chest and drink from his still beating heart. But until then…

Oswald shivers, thumbing Jim’s glassy eyes closed.

Jim really was the most beautiful corpse.

**Author's Note:**

> Jim isn't fast food, he's a whole three course meal.


End file.
